Lord John And The Hand Of Devils

“I suppose so.” Grey picked up his fork, then laid it down again and clenched his hands together in his lap.



“Well. Have you any useful suggestions to make, Harry?”



“I think you should eat your trout while it’s still hot.” Quarry prodded his own fish approvingly in illustration. “Beyond that …” He eyed Grey, chewing.



“There is a certain opinion in the regiment, to the effect that perhaps you should be seconded to the Sixty-fifth, or possibly the Seventy-eighth. Temporarily, of course; let things blow over and quiet down.”



The Sixty-fifth was presently stationed in the West Indies, Grey knew; the Seventy-eighth was a Highland regiment somewhere in the American colonies—the Northwest Territory, perhaps, or some other outlandish place.



“Thus allowing Twelvetrees and Marchmont to claim that I’ve fled to avoid prosecution, thus lending credence to their preposterous insinuations. I think not.”



Harry nodded, matter-of-fact.



“Of course. Which leaves us with my original suggestion.”



Grey raised an eyebrow at him.



“Eat your trout,” Quarry said. “And the devil with your hands. Mine would shake, too, in your position.”



Hal was, of course, with the part of the regiment presently in winter quarters in Prussia. Harry had wanted to send word to him, but Grey declined.



“There is little Hal can do, and his presence would merely inflame feelings further,” he pointed out. “Let me see what I can do alone; time enough to advise him if anything drastic should happen.”



“And what do you propose to do?” Quarry asked, giving him a narrow look.



“Go down to Sussex and see Edgar DeVane,” Grey replied. “He ought at least to know that his name is being put forward as a suspected saboteur. And if there should be anything whatever to the matter …”



“Well, that will at least get you out of Town and out of sight for a bit,” Quarry agreed dubiously. “Can’t hurt. And you could be back within two or three days, should anything—you will pardon my choice of words, I trust—blow up.”



Grey’s departure for Sussex was delayed, however, by receipt of a note in the morning post.



“What is it, me lord?” Tom, attracted by Grey’s muttered blasphemies, stuck his head out of the pantry, where he had been cleaning boots.



“A Mr. Lister, from Sussex, is in Town. He wishes to call upon me, should I find that convenient.”



Tom shrugged. “You might have found it convenient to be already gone, me lord,” he suggested.



“I would, but I can’t. He’s the father of Lieutenant Lister, the officer who was killed at Crefeld. He’s heard that I have his son’s sword, and while he’s much too polite to say he wants it back, that is his obvious desire.”



Grey reached for ink and paper with a sigh.



“I’ll tell him to come this afternoon. We’ll leave tomorrow.”



Mr. Lister had a slight stammer, made worse by emotion, and a small, pale face, overwhelmed by a very new and full-bottomed wig, from whose depths he peeped out like a wary field mouse.



“Lord John G-Grey? I intrude intolerably, sir, but I—Colonel Quarry said … that is, I do hope I am not …”



“Not in the slightest,” Grey said firmly. “And it is I who must beg pardon of you, sir. You should not have put yourself to the trouble of coming; I should have been most pleased to wait upon you.” Lord John bowed him to a chair, flicking a glance at Tom, who promptly vanished in search of refreshment.



“Oh, no, n-not at all, my lord. I—it is most gracious in you to receive me so s-suddenly. I know I am …” He waved a small, neat hand in a gesture that encompassed social doubt, self-effacement, and abject apology—and conveyed such a sense of helplessness that Grey felt himself obliged to take Mr. Lister’s arm and lead him physically to a seat.



“I must apologize, sir,” he said, having seen his guest settled. “I ought to have made an effort to inquire for Lieutenant Lister’s family long before this.”



A faint approximation of a smile touched Mr. Lister’s face.



“That is kind in you to say, sir. But there is no reason, really, why you should. Philip”—his lips twitched at speaking his dead son’s name—“Philip was not of your regiment, nor in any way under your command.”



“He was a fellow officer,” Grey assured him. “And thus has claim to both my duty and respect—as does his family.” Having been drenched to the skin in Philip Lister’s blood seemed an even more immediate claim upon his interest, but he thought he would not mention the fact.



“Oh.” Mr. Lister drew a deep breath, and seemed a little easier. “I—Thank you.”



“Will you take something, sir? A little wine, perhaps?” Tom had appeared, manfully lugging an enormous tray equipped with a rattling array of bottles, decanters, glasses, and an immense seed cake. Where had he got that? Grey wondered.



“Oh! No, I thank you, my lord. I d-do not take spirits. We are Methodist, you understand.”



“Of course,” Grey said. “We’ll have tea, Tom, if you please.”



Tom gave Mr. Lister a disapproving look, but decanted the cake onto the table, hoisted the tray, and rattled off into the recesses of the apartment.



There was an awkward pause, which a little port or Madeira would have covered admirably. Not for the first time, Grey wondered at a religion which rejected so many of the things that made life tolerable. Perhaps it sprang from an intent to make heaven seem that much more desirable by contrast to a life from which pleasure had been largely removed.



But he must admit that his own attitudes toward Methodists perhaps lacked justice, having been badly colored by—He choked off that line of thought before it could reach its natural conclusion, and picking up the knife Tom had brought, waved it inquiringly in the direction of the seed cake.



Mr. Lister accepted the offer with alacrity, but obviously more in order to have something to do than from appetite, for he merely poked at his allotted portion, breaking off small bits and mashing them randomly with his fork.



Grey did his best to conduct a conversation, making courteous inquiries regarding Mr. Lister’s wife and other family, but it was hard going, with the shade of Philip Lister perched like a vulture over the seed cake on the table between them.



At last, Grey put down his cup and glanced at Tom, hovering discreetly near the door.



“Tom, do you have Lieutenant Lister’s sword convenient?”



“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom assured him, with an air of relief. Mr. Lister was getting on his nerves, too. “Cleaned and polished, kept quite proper!”



It was. Grey doubted that the sword had ever achieved such a blinding state of propriety while in the care of its original owner.



Grey felt an unexpected pang as he took the sheathed sword from Tom and presented it to Mr. Lister. He had no thought of keeping it, of course, and in fact had barely thought of it in the days since his return to England. Seeing it, though, and holding it, brought back in a sudden rush the events surrounding the battle at Crefeld.



The fog of misery and terror he had felt on that day enveloped him again, miasmalike—and then, cutting through all that, the weight of the sword in his hand, the same as the feeling in him when he had seized it from Lister’s body. In that moment, he had thrown all emotion and any sense of self-preservation to the wind, and flung himself howling on the deserting gun crew, shouting and beating them with the flat of the sword, forcing them back to their duty by the power of his will.



He had not realized it until much later, but that moment of abnegation had had the paradoxical effect of making him whole, as though the heat of battle had melted all the shattered bits of mind and heart and forged him anew—into something hard and adamant, incapable of being hurt.



Then, of course, Tom Pilchard had blown up.



His hand had grown damp on the leather of the scabbard, and it took an actual effort of will to relinquish it.



Mr. Lister looked at the sword for some time, holding it upon the palms of his hands as though it might be some holy relic. Finally, very gently, he set it upon his knees, and coughed.



“I th-thank you, Lord John,” he said. His face worked for a moment, formulating words with such effort as to suggest that each one must be individually molded of clay.



“I—that is, my wife. His m-mother. I d-do not wish to … cause offense. Certainly. Or—or discomfort. B-but it would be perhaps some s-solace, were she to know what … what …” He stopped abruptly, eyes closed. He sat thus for some moments, absolutely still, seeming not even to breathe, and Grey exchanged an uneasy look with Tom, not sure whether his guest was merely overcome with emotion, or suffering a fit of some kind.



At last, Mr. Lister drew breath, though he did not open his eyes.



“Did he speak?” he asked hoarsely. “Did you talk … talk to him? His last—his last w-words …” Tears had begun to course down Mr. Lister’s pale face.



Methodist be damned, Grey thought. Prayer doubtless had its place, but when you were right up against it, there was no substitute for alcohol.



“Brandy, please, Tom,” he said, but it was there already, Tom nearly spilling the glass in his haste.



“Mr. Lister. Please, sir.” He leaned forward, tried to take Lister’s hands in his, but they were clenched into fists.



He remembered the lieutenant’s last words, vividly. Likewise, Philip Lister’s expression of openmouthed astonishment as the cannonball had struck the ground, hit a stone, and soared up into the air—an instant later decapitating the lieutenant and rendering his last words ironically prophetic.



“Fuck me!” the lieutenant had said, in wonderment.



Mr. Lister was so much overcome with emotion that he made little protest at the brandy, and while he coughed and spluttered, Grey managed to pour sufficient into him as to induce a semblance of calm at last.



He had had it in mind, seeing his guest’s distress, to compose some suitably noble speech in lieu of Philip Lister’s actual exit line, but found that he could not bring himself to do this.



“I saw your son for the first time only moments before his death,” he said, as gently as he could. “There was no time for talk. But I can assure you, sir, that he died instantly—and he died bravely, as a soldier of the king. You—and your wife, of course—may be justly proud of him.”



“May we?” The brandy had calmed Mr. Lister, and had the salutary effect of relieving his stammer, but had also brought a hectic flush to his pale cheeks.



“I thank you for your words, sir. And seeing that you share the profession of arms, I suppose you mean them.”



“I do,” Grey said, somewhat surprised.



Lister mopped at his face with the handkerchief Tom had discreetly provided, and looked directly at Grey for the first time.



“You will think me ungrateful, my lord, and I assure you I am not. But I must tell you that we—my wife and I—were completely opposed to Philip’s choice of career. We—fell out over the matter, I regret to say. In f-fact …” He swallowed heavily. “We had not spoken to Philip since he took up his commission.”



And now he was dead, as a direct result of having done so. Grey took a deep breath and nodded.



“I see, sir. You have my sympathy. A bit more brandy, perhaps? Purely for medicinal purposes.”



Mr. Lister looked at the bottle with a certain longing, but shook his head.



“No, my lord. I … no.”



He fell silent, looking down at the sword, which he now clutched tightly, one hand wrapped around the scabbard.



“May I ask a great favor of you, my lord?” he said abruptly.



“Certainly,” Grey replied, willing to do almost anything, firstly to relieve Lister’s distress, secondly to get him out of Grey’s sitting room.



“I said that we were opposed to Philip’s pursuing a career with the army. He bought his commission with a small inheritance, and left almost immediately for London.” The hectic flush had faded a little; now it came back, washing up Mr. Lister’s throat in a tide of shame. “He—he t-took …” The words dried in his throat, and he looked down, fumbling with the ring of the scabbard.



Took what? Grey wondered. The family silver? Was he to be asked to comb pawnshops for bartered heirlooms? With a sense of resignation, he poured more tea, picked up the brandy bottle and added a healthy dollop, then firmly handed the cup to Mr. Lister.



“Took what?” he asked bluntly.



Mr. Lister took the tea with trembling hands and, with an obvious effort, went on, looking down into its aromatic depths.



“He had formed an … attachment. To the daughter of our minister—a most suitable young woman; my wife and daughters were terribly fond of her.”



The minister had been, if not fond of Philip Lister, at least amenable to the match—until Philip had declared his intention of becoming a soldier.



The upshot of this had been that the minister had broken off the attachment—evidently it had not reached the stage of betrothal—and forbade Philip the house. Whereupon the new lieutenant, inflamed, had come round by night with a ladder, and in the best romantic tradition, induced his love to elope with him.



The little he had heard from Quarry of Philip Lister had already convinced Grey that perhaps the son was not so religious in outlook as were his parents; thus this revelation was not quite the shock to him that it plainly had been to his family.



“The scandal,” Mr. Lister whispered, and, gulping tea, shuddered convulsively. “The disgrace of it nearly killed m-my wife. And the Reverend Mr. Thackeray, of course … The things he preached …”